


The Sound of Life's Sweet Bells

by rabidchild67



Series: Five Times... [18]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Domestic, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal makes a special dinner for Peter’s birthday.</p>
<p>Originally published in 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Life's Sweet Bells

**Author's Note:**

> You do not need to read the previous fics, but for the purpose of this one, Neal, Peter and El are in a long term, committed relationship and have had a child (PJ) together, who is nearly five in this story.
> 
> Title is a lyric from the Modest Mouse song “Missed the Boat.”

OK, now for the tricky part,” Neal breathed, his fingers tingling in anticipation. He shook his head, rolled his shoulders, loosened the muscles in his back. With all the jobs he’s planned, all the artworks he’s forged, all the cases he’s worked, it’s always the fiddly detail work that he gets off on. Whether it’s duplicating the fine brushwork of a Dutch master or finessing an antique safe, he’s never more energized than when perfecting those last little details.

He was ready. He picked up the long handled tool and slid it under the last component of his latest creation. His hands were steady as he lifted it, guiding it with a steady hand, his fingertips ghosting along its edge, easing it to its final resting place. He almost had it, everything was lined up.

“Whatcha doin’ Dadda?” PJ asked loudly from behind him.

Neal jumped, and the caramel-coated top of the Dobos torte he was completing nearly toppled from its precarious perch atop the long offset spatula he held. “Just a sec, buddy,” he said and managed finally to lay the cake layer on top of its five cousins, separated as they were by layers of rich, chocolate buttercream. Neal straightened and wiped his brow with the cuff of his shirt. Done – finally. He hoped it tasted as good as it looked.

He turned and smiled down at his son. “I made Papa’s birthday cake. Want some frosting?”

PJ nodded enthusiastically and Neal lifted him onto a nearby stool and handed him a wooden spoon. In the space of time it took Neal to smooth the frosting that clung to the sides of the cake, PJ had managed to thoroughly coat his face with chocolate and get some in his hair as well. Neal looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Is somefing wrong?” PJ asked, smacking his lips.

“Yes, I think so,” Neal said seriously, taking a step forward. “Because you look delicious!” He pounced on PJ and lifted him in his arms, kissing him all over his face and smearing chocolate over himself in the process. PJ shrieked with laughter as Neal cried, “Yum-yum-yum-yum!” and spun him around.

“Stop it, Dadda!” PJ screamed and Neal put him back on his feet on the floor.

“Oh, sorry. Silliness abated,” Neal said, trying to suppress a smile.

PJ climbed back up onto his stool and Neal wet a kitchen towel to clean both their faces up.

“Can we go to the park with Bessie?” PJ asked. Bessie, a 4-month old yellow Lab puppy, had been recently purchased from the same breeder where Elizabeth had gotten the dearly-departed Satchmo, and she and PJ were nearly inseparable.

“I can’t, buddy, I’m making Papa’s birthday dinner.”

“Whatcha makin’?”

“All his favorites.”

“Like chicken and mashed potatoes?”

“Those are your favorites,” Neal pointed out. “No, like goulash and spaetzle.”

PJ made a face.

“You loved it whenever Grandma made it,” Neal pointed out.

“I did?”

“I have photographic evidence.”

“Can’t we have chicken?” PJ flashed a smile, a born negotiator.

Neal tousled his blond hair. “Maybe tomorrow. I’m doing this to cheer Papa up. He’s been sad since Grandma Anna died.”

PJ nodded. “Me too. I miss her.”

“So do I,” Neal said, his eyes misting up. He and Peter’s mother had developed a close relationship, which grew out of their shared passions for cooking and art. She was a talented portrait painter and many of her pieces now decorated their house. She had passed away suddenly three months before, and this was Peter’s first birthday without her. So Neal was making all his childhood favorites from Anna’s own recipes, many of them still written on scraps of notebook paper in her native German.

“Are you sad too, Dadda?”

“Just a little,” Neal said. Anna had been very much like a mother to him – he’d lost his as a teenager – doting and kind, but with a quick wit and an uncanny ability to get Neal drunk almost every time she visited. “But you always make me happy.”

A knock at the back door broke the mood and when he saw who it was, PJ shrieked with delight. “Uncle Mozzie!” He jumped down from his stool and ran for him, throwing his arms around Moz in a bear hug.

Moz leaned over and gave PJ a hug, setting the bag he carried onto the floor. “Hey, little man.” He made his way slowly over to the kitchen island, PJ still attached to his hip. “I brought the Cote du Rhone you asked for,” he told Neal.

“Aw, thanks.”

“Something smells good.”

“I’m making goulash for Peter’s birthday dinner.”

“You’re the best wifey a man could have.”

“Be nice.”

“You stayin’ for the party, Uncle Moz?” PJ asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Peej.”

“You wanna go to the park with Bessie ‘n me?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Moz said. “Go and get your jacket and some poop bags.” PJ raced from the room and Moz grabbed the dog’s leash from the hook on the wall and headed for the door.

“Hey Moz?” Neal called to him.

“Yeah?”

“Do I need to remind you not to use my kid as a shill in a pigeon drop?”

“That was just the one time, Neal, jeez. And it was years ago – you ever gonna drop it?” Neal just raised an eyebrow. “Guess not.”

Moz returned with PJ two hours later, a sleepy Bessie in his arms. They were followed closely by Elizabeth, who’d brought flowers for the table and Peter’s birthday gift from her and Neal – an antique astrolabe to go with the sextant she’d bought him years before.

They all sat around the kitchen island watching as Neal put the finishing touches on dinner, whipping up a quick salad because El was on a we-have-to-eat-more-veggies kick.

PJ caught a glimpse of something through the front windows and hopped off his stool. “Papa’s home!” he said, dancing around. He took up El’s and Moz’s hands and tried to drag them toward the front door. “We have to say surprise!” he told them.

“This was supposed to be a surprise?” El asked Neal over their son’s head.

“Not at all,” Neal replied, but followed them nonetheless.

Having parked the car, Peter soon arrived through the door to shouts of “Surprise!” and “Happy Birthday!”

Peter picked PJ up and tossed him in the air. “Happy Birthday, Papa! Were you surprised?”

“I was _so_ surprised! Thank you!”

PJ threw his arms around Peter’s neck and kissed him. “We’re having a party for you.”

Peter squeezed him tight. “I see that. Something sure smells good.”

“We have hats and everything,” Elizabeth told him, moving in for a kiss. “PJ insisted.”

“Sounds like the best birthday ever,” Peter said, kissing her and then planting PJ back on the floor.

Neal handed him the beer he’d snagged from the fridge on his way over and squeezed his hand. “Let’s hope so.”

After dinner was over, Neal moved around in the kitchen making coffee while Peter loaded up the dishwasher. El was in the living room watching PJ school his Uncle Mozzie at ConnectFour.

Neal felt Peter grab for his hand and he turned to face him. “Dinner was delicious, Neal. Thank you.”

Neal smiled.

“All of my favorite things, and Dobos torte for dessert. How did you know?”

Neal smiled. “I asked Anna months ago – was going to do it for you last year but then we went out instead. I thought it would be a nice surprise for your birthday.”

“That was the dinner my mom used to make for my dad for _his_ birthday every year, so it became my favorite too. It makes me miss her a little more, though.”

Peter’s eyes began to tear up and Neal put his hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean for it to make you sad.” Neal put his arms around Peter and guided his head to his shoulder.

“I know you didn’t. Look at me, bawling my eyes out here.”

“It’s allowed, Peter.”

They hugged for a minute and then Peter pulled away, wiping at his eyes with the dish towel he held. “I need to cowboy up.”

“I will tell you when you need to cowboy up.”

“You make me so happy,” Peter said truthfully, returning to loading the dishwasher, and then it was Neal’s turn to tear up.

Peter rolled up his shirt sleeves to start washing the pots and pans when he looked over at Neal thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve been thinking about something lately,” he began.

He had that squinty look to his eyes that Neal knew meant he was thinking about it a _lot_. He looked at Peter expectantly.

“I’m going to talk to Bancroft about putting in for Hughes’ job when he leaves next month.”

“Really?” Neal asked. He knew he sounded doubtful, but it was a serious thing for Peter to consider removing himself from field work for such a position. Hughes - who had stayed on at the Bureau depsite mandatory retirement age rules -  was finally retiring, and there had been much speculation at the office that Peter would be next in line. Before this moment, however, Neal would have bet against it. “They didn’t ask you already?”

“Not lately, but they’ve been asking me for years and I always turned them down.” Hughes had been on the verge of retiring for over five years, and was finally doing so under duress – his wife of forty years had threatened divorce.

“What makes you change your mind? I can’t really picture you riding a desk, Peter.” Neal thought it might actually drive him insane.

“Well, my mom dying kind of put it into perspective. It’s made me feel like maybe life’s too short, and I’m missing out on a few things. If I take the job, there’ll be fewer hours, and I can spend more time here at home, with PJ. He’ll be starting school next year.”

“You really see yourself at PTA meetings and bake sales?” Neal asked. He found the image unbelievably sexy.

“Well, I’m not getting any younger, and I think it’s time to maybe slow down a little. Smell the roses.”

“And the dog poop,” Neal commented, pointing at Bessie scratching at the back door.

Peter grinned and went to let her out. He leaned against the door, his hand still on the knob. “What do you think?” he asked Neal.

“I think I want you to be happy. Will this make you happy?”

“I think spending more time with our son will make me very happy.”

“Then I think it’s the best idea you’ve had since taking a chance on a certain young con artist all those years ago.”

Peter grinned. “That _was_ a stroke of genius,” he said and crossed over to Neal, kissing him lightly on the lips.

Neal cleared his throat. “OK, now, decaf or regular tonight?” El had also been on a we-drink-too-much-caffeine kick of late. Peter gave Neal an “are you kidding?” look and Neal loaded the regular beans into the coffee grinder.

“Best birthday ever, babe. Thanks,” Peter said to Neal, brushing a hand across his ass.

“Oh, we’ll get to the presents later,” Neal said with a smile and switched on the grinder.

\----

Thank you for your time.

\----

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The kitchen in this story reflects the remodeled one in S3, even though my past stories in this series do not. I just don't have the energy to go back and fix them!


End file.
